


Monsoon

by Tammany



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, M/M, VERY slightly D/s, Very slightly Lestrade sub., Very slightly Mycroft dom, Wild Sex, door sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-02
Updated: 2015-09-02
Packaged: 2018-04-18 15:03:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4710278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ok, this was something I took three tries to write and come near what I wanted. The goal was to come up with a scenario in which I could believe in a Mycroft who was not only very much hunting, but fierce about it--classic crazy porn/tempestuous sex scene. But without writing a long, painful backstory working up to it. I think I got what I wanted--I think the set-up is clear enough to establish why once the all-clear is sounded, Mycroft cheerfully gets his man and Lestrade is happy to be got. </p><p>But see what you think. It was very much an attempt to do wild and crazy sex without leaving me feeling like neither character would ever actually do that, but without turning it into a novel to accomplish that result.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Monsoon

“How long have we worked together, DCI Lestrade?”

Lestrade looked up from his seat opposite Mycroft’s desk, frowning. “Huh?” How could Mycroft—of all people—ask a question like that?

“I asked how long we’ve worked together.”

Lestrade frowned harder, absently pushing his reading glasses up his nose as he tried to put together the tally. He wasn’t stupid, but he had trouble keeping numbers straight without paper and pencil to help. A calculator on the side was also convenient. “Let’s see. That was back when you were working the link between Ansar and that Pakistani merchant and I was working on the incoming opiates from Afghanistan, and the two cases ended up overlapping. Which was….” He gave up and started counting on his fingers. “Let’s see, five years back was when John first showed up, because that was back in…yeah. And before that it was another five years to when you decided to hook Sherlock and me together. And the Ansar case was, one, two…”

“Twelve years,” Mycroft snapped. “Twelve.”

“A bit more, counting months—“

“Twelve.” Mycroft cut him off with a reproving glare. “Normal people do not reckon in months unless they are new parents.”

“Or Holmeses.” Lestrade, mischief brewing, kept his voice chipper and helpful. “Often as not you two do want it in months, and even weeks and days. Once Sherlock wanted it reckoned down to minutes and seconds.”

“I am not Sherlock,” Mycroft snipped.

“’Course you’re not,” Lestrade responded, bluff and good natured and gaming his associate for all he was worth. “Taller, for one thing.”

The huff he got for that was worth it. He shone every iota of innocence available. “So. Twelve years. Long time, yeah?”

“Outrageously so. I’ve been considering it, of late.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

Lestrade felt a prickle down his back. There was something imposing about Mycroft all of a sudden.

“Mike? What’s up?

Mycroft studied him silently, leaning back in his desk chair, fingers steepled over his elegant weskit. After too long a wait, he said, “It was one thing to ignore our attraction when we first started working together. I was newly installed in this position. You had been seconded to MI6 in the face of objections by your superiors. You were married. I had Sherlock at his worst. It was not as though admitting there was anything there would have been an advantage.”

Lestrade felt as though the entire floor had been pulled out from under him, and he was now dropping down hell’s own rabbit hole into chaos. “What?”

He had thought he’d managed to hide that from Mycroft.

Stupid, stupid, stupid, he thought. You do not hide things from Mycroft. If you’re lucky, he lets you pretend you did. That’s as good as it gets.

And there had been those nights when he’d walked away from meetings hard and wanting and sure—sure with every fiber of his being—that there had been a response on the other side…but...

“You never said anything,” he said, suddenly hoarse.

Mycrot’s brow shot up, pure Spock. “You didn’t ask. Not that you said anything, either.”

“You didn’t ask.” His voice was shaking.

His hands were suddenly damp.

“Where’s this going?” he asked, suddenly afraid, because with a Holmes this conversation could be going anywhere, and most of the options were not good.

“I don’t know,” Mycroft said, cocking his head and narrowing his eyes in sharp attention. “I believe we are in the process of finding out.”

Oh, great. Neither of them had a game plan.

“It’s twelve years,” Lestrade said, looking for a silver lining. “We’ve been fine for twelve years. It’s not a problem, yeah?”

Mycroft’s mouth flicked in ironic amusement. “Your definition of ‘problem’ appears to be restricted to the capacity to still function as professionals without ever resolving the underlying issues.”

Lestrade glanced away. “Issues usually take care of themselves. If they don’t—Twenty minutes in a hot shower works pretty well for me.”

It was crass, he thought, but crass was the only thing he could think of that might silence Holmes, now that the other man had opted for openness and investigation rather than their long-preferred silence and pretended ignorance. And it was true enough: no matter how much he longed for Mycroft physically, he could survive by going home and running the shower and having a slow, luxurious toss. Maybe it was even better that way. Imagination is a wonderful thing.

“So you’ve never wished for more?” It was as though Mycroft had read his mind.

Lestrade was no fool. “What will ‘more’ cost me?” he asked, suspicious and wary.

Mycroft blinked. “I do not know. For perfect professionalism we might best end our work alliance.”

“No.” Lestrade stunned himself with how fast he snapped that out—and with the near panic in his voice. “No…”

Hurt flickered over Mycroft’s face, but Lestrade could barely register that through his own terror. No more working with Mike? For years that hidden association had been the thin gold thread that tied his layered lives together and made everything make sense. Even if he saw Mike for only a few hours a month—or less—those hours defined who Lestrade was. They sorted out the reasons why he did all the other things he did. The work with Mycroft provided a context for everything—for the Met, for MI5 and MI6, for Sherlock, for crazy things like Moriarty, for the divorce... Everything made sense when, in some part of his mind, he knew that what he did was work with Mycroft Holmes to save the goddamned world. To save lives. To save nations.

“I don’t want to lose that,” he said, suddenly fierce with the need. “I’m not ready to stop working with you. Not even…” he blushed, then, bright and hot and miserable. “Not even for the best fuck either of us ever fucked. All right? It’s not worth it. Losing you isn’t worth it.”

Mycroft blinked, and pushed his own reading glasses down his nose. After a time he said, cautiously, “I did not realize that we were negotiating such a complete loss. Perhaps more a contextual transfer? From a work setting to a more…” he looked away, blushing slightly himself. “A more social setting.”

Lestrade forced himself to draw a shaky breath, and to give it honest consideration. He said, wryly. “We made a hell of a jump, didn’t we? Just now? All work to, er…all play.”

“I believe that was inherent in the premise,” Mycroft said. “The absolute of desire, in any case. Perhaps not the exclusivity of desire over professional calling, though?”

“Mmm. I just—How long have you wanted to…?”

Eyebrows again, up-down, a sardonic little flick. “Oh, that one I may have to reckon in months, weeks, days, hours, minutes, and seconds, if I’m to be accurate at all.”

Lestrade, remembering their first encounter on a rainy night in a bloody street fight with terrorists, ending with them in a circle of corpses, clinging to each other as though the minister had just said,”You may now kiss the bride,” nodded. His mouth went dry. “Yeah. Ok. When you work it out to the last second, let me know and I’ll sign off on it. Me, too.”

Their eyes met. Mycroft made a crooked, sad little face, and said apologetically, “You were married.”

Lestrade nodded. “That I was. And you were fighting for your position with half the secret services against you.”

Mycroft nodded in reminiscence. “That I was.”

“What do you want?”

“A resolution?”

“That’s not telling me much, Mike. Really—do you want me to ask them to end the secondment?” The thought nearly broke his heart, but it would clear the way for them to pursue other forms of connection.

 He could see Mycroft running through logical options. “I want—truly, I want to pursue this without changing our work relationship. After all—you’re seconded. Not officially under my command. More a.. consultant.” Then he rose, smiling. “We can make this simpler. Do you want me to get this arranged through Lady Smallwood, so we do not have to worry about anything but our own preferences?”

This time Lestrade flicked a brow, and cocked Mycroft a cheeky grin. “Bossy brat, aren’t you?”

Something shimmered between them, and Mycroft smiled a wolfish smile. “You have no idea, DCI Lestrade. Now, answer the question. Shall I work it out through Lady Smallwood, on my own?”

The truth was that Lestrade trusted Mycroft to work it all out to everyone’s satisfaction, once he’d set his mind to it. He nodded, then said, cheerfully. “Works for me. So—what next? How do you want to end the twelve-year drought?”

Mycroft's stance shifted. His body coiled, ready for action. He held still, though, saying, “Have you a strong prejudice against being…pursued?” The word dripped connotations of wild nights and raging passions.

Lestrade licked his lips, nerves waking to sudden alertness. “Um—I'm usually the hunter, not the hunted, but…” he considered, then said, “Not a purist about it, though. You?”

“Oh, I can switch….some other time.” Blue eyes flashed fire, then, and Mycroft was in motion, coming around the desk, coming toward Lestrade, hands meeting Lestrade’s and pulling him from the chair, body guiding Lestrade in a fast salsa stride to the door. Their momentum threw Lestrade against the door. Shoulders hit wood cored with steel with a solid thud. Mycroft drew their hands wide, to either side of Lestrade’s head, pinning them firmly. His thigh was already between Lestrade’s.. He leaned in, growling, and claimed Lestrade’s mouth with a hunger that was worth a dozen years of self-restraint.

“Oh,” Lestrade managed to say, between moans. “Oh…”

He’d longed for Mycroft. He hadn’t known he’d longed for Mycroft like this. This was the man who’d fought off Ansar terrorists in the night streets with him. This was the mastermind who’d led them together through years of espionage work. This was the genius who guided the nation—all that intelligence and drive distilled into one burning body determined to seduce Lestrade…

“This?” Mycroft’s voice was rough. His hands held Lestrade’s firm, shackling him in place. His hard-on pushed against Lestrade’s thigh, unmistakable and unapologetic.

“This” Lestrade growled, and drew up a leg, hitching it over the crest of Mycroft’s hip.

Later, they would make slow love in a bed. Later, Lestrade would count the freckles on Mycroft’s shoulders, tracing them with a tender finger. Later, Mycroft would make his first clumsy, shy attempt at love-talk, blushing and laughing at himself even as he whispered antique words in his lover’s ear. Later, they would undress in leisurely indolence, a button at a time, turning Mycroft’s intricate suits into bespoke burlesque.

Then, though, there was no time, no restraint, no planning, no mind—just need. Twelve years denied were suddenly unpent. Mycroft Holmes and Greg Lestrade, neither man slow to take command, were driven to claim each other. Then. Now. Hot.

They didn’t even manage to unbutton their flies, but dry humped in frantic desire like teenagers, holding each other fast. When Mycroft let go of Lestrade’s hands, they instantly wrapped each other tight like starfish wrapping a clam, fingers leaving olive-shaped bruises wherever their hands held on. Lestrade turned his head and nipped, sharp-toothed, up the line of Mycroft’s jaw, then raced back to his mouth and suckled his tongue, moaning. They pushed and pushed, grunting, panting, Mycroft maintaining only enough control to carry them through safe—enough to keep them upright and secure and little beyond that. When Lestrade shattered in climax, Mycroft wailed and followed. Then they melted down the door, sliding, boneless, gasping, to huddle on the floor together, damp faces buried in each other’s shoulders.

Minutes later, Lestrade said, “It’s a good thing your office is well sound-proofed.”

Mycroft snorted. “It’s a good thing I warned Anthea to ignore any noise we made this afternoon. I assure you, no one makes sound-proofing good enough to resist that.”

“So—she knows?”

“She’s the one who pointed out it was a full dozen years.”

“You hadn’t hired her then.”

“She isn’t stupid, and she knows when we started working together.”

“Mmmmm.”

“Are you…pleased?”

Lestrade considered. He’d come in today expecting a fairly ordinary meeting. Instead his life was changed. Of course, his pants were not, which did affect how he felt right now.

“I’ll be more pleased after a cleanup in your office loo,” he said. Then, tenderly, he kissed Mycroft. “Yeah. I’m pleased. You live up to the jaguar on your car hood, love.”

Mycroft beamed as he drew himself from Lestrade and helped the other man up. He growled, eyes dancing. “Grrrrrrrr. I shall eat you up.”

“Later.” Lestrade smiled and blushed and started the walk of shame to the loo. Only when he reached the door did he turn and say, “Pity we waited so long—but since we did? It was worth it.”

He laughed to see Mycroft turn pink with pride and excitement and embarrassment.

“Better than twenty minutes in a hot shower?”

“Shorter than twenty minutes in a hot shower,” Lestrade pointed out.

“I’ll aim for increased duration next time.”

“See that you do.”

He closed the door behind him and went to the sink—and stopped.

He had never seen himself smile like that.

He didn’t think anyone ever had before.


End file.
